


A red wolf's bite

by DelphiCake



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29398341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelphiCake/pseuds/DelphiCake
Summary: Sansa Stark dies in the dark tunnels running underneath King's Landing, but like her brother she doesn't stay dead. The old blood brings her back to a time and place full of dangers, but she is the Queen of the North and trained in the Game.This time Sansa is ready for her enemies and they will pay!
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Other(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	1. Prolouge

**Author's Note:**

> Season 1: Red Keep

**Prologue**

Boom! A Valyrian enforced gate snaps into place behind a lone woman wearing a heavy black cloak. The foreboding noise echoes in the ice-covered tunnel. 

The queen of the North flinches and helplessly collapse. Sansa whimpers at the hard impact, but don’t react further. She instead struggles to stop the thick red blood pouring out of the Ice-Spear wound on her stomach. Shaking badly she holds her lantern closer to see. 

A desperate laugh follows. There’s blue puss mixed in with the precious life-source. She’ll never make it back to the Red Keep in time for Samwell to save her. All because of a crying baby! Arya must be cursing at her in the afterlife for falling for such an old trap. 

Especially after years of surviving wars, starvation and true winter. Sansa’s only excuse is that the new Walkers never spares the living so the sight of a healthy baby had made her party react with hope and not caution. Thus they had left the secret tunnels running under Kings Landing; exposing their safest route down to Blackwater Bay and its unfrozen ocean. 

“Efron and Podrick must be warned.” She mutters, watching her breathe evaporate against the lantern’s glass. Her heart was beating wildly, but her limbs becoming lethargic. “The city is lost.”

Without ink or paper Sansa opts to use blood and ice. If she’s lucky Gendry will send out scouts and if they’re even luckier she’s found before the undead gets them. Thus the princes might escape with the survivors still hiding within the broken castle. 

“Thirteen years we lasted Bran,” She grimaces while painting her message on the left wall-side. It was less cracked. She still grieves over him… more so than her pending end. “Perhaps it would have been longer if the Red Priests hadn’t murdered you.” 

The fanatics had struck when Brandon was warging. He’d survived for long enough to warn Tyrion about the second wave of Walkers seen heading south. Jon had been one of their first victims. 

Upon learning she’d lost two brothers Sansa had been reluctant to leave Winterfell but done so after being told that to “stay above the neck means death.” Brans had warned that without the Wall or the Three-Eyed-Raven winter couldn’t be stopped.

After finishing her message Sansa blows out the burning wick. No point in wasting oil when others needed it more. The world plunges into darkness. Closing her eyes Sansa tilts her head back and tries to think of happier times. The memories of her childhood her one comfort. 

How she missed those days with her family. Father’s laughing face, mother’s sweet smiles, Jon’s silent presence, Robb's warm hugs, Arya's forceful nature, Brandon’s love for stories and Rickon’s wildness. At least she would be with them soon. Or so she prays, remembering Jon’s tales of nothingness. 

Without knowing it Sansa falls unconscious. Shortly after clusters of the undead reaches the locked gate but are denied entry. The Walker controlling them push forth to try its magic.

The enchanted steel holds but the thick ice cracks and covers Sansa's body in shards. Inhumanly blue eyes stare hungrily at the frozen woman but as her heart stops it moans in confusion. 

It could not call her back to its service. Upset the leader orders his servants deeper down additional tunnels. He hisses forebodingly at the meal denied him before following.

XXX

Gendry never finds her and after three scouts fail to return the people sombrely mourns their last queen. It’s with sorrow northern guards hands out her things to the more needing. Soon there is nothing left in the lone chest brought from her childhood home but a wolf-necklace. 

XXX

A week later the undead breaches the castle’s last defense. The last northerners quickly die.

Full of rage the bastard son of Robert Baratheon fulfills the Mad King's last wish. He sets aflame the last barrels of wildfire, engulfing Aegon's Hill in green flames. It doesn’t stop the winter plaguing the lands or its Walkers, but no wights survive.

Trying to escape the flames is one lone raven, who flies deep into the city's underbelly. Flames licks at its feathers. down and down it goes, only stopping upon finding the Red Wolf’s remains. 

Milky-white eyes fixate on her pale skin and fiery red hair. With a craw it settles over Sansa's heart and picks at the ice there. It pierces flesh just as the flames engulf them. 

As the raven dies the ancient being warged inside it thinks:

_ “Old blood holds power. Good luck, sister.” _

XXX

  
  



	2. A conflicted return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so our story begin.

“ _Old blood holds power._ _Good luck, sister.”_

  
  


The words echo as Sansa wakes, but she doesn’t take note of them. Yawning instead she pushes away a soft blanket and sits up. Stretching she wonders where Efron found wood? Her room was pleasantly heated which was rare. Blinking away sleep she prepares to ask her attendant who found her, but his name comes out as a meek cough. 

  
  


Why? Because there were flowers on her bedside table! Fresh, colorful and lovely summer flowers… its likes haven't been seen in _years._ Confused Sansa swiftly turns and pushes aside the canopy-cloth. An expensive chamber, fit for a noble lady, is revealed. 

  
  


The bed standing on a raised level also holds a dressing section, shielded by a divider decorated with dancing princesses and heroic knights. At the foot end three arched windows are facing east, allowing rays of _sunlight_ into the room. One step down an ebony table with matching chairs dominates the lounge area. 

  
  


While taking it in Sansa’s shocked eyes is drawn to a wooden frame standing next to the chamber door. Its canvas has a half-finished direwolf embroidered on it. It was of Lady! But that was impossible. The piece had been destroyed by Cersei; Along with everything else bearing house Starks sigil. Panic sets in. Its ugly claws were familiar but unwelcome. Sansa drills her nails into her palms to stave it off. The pain a welcome distraction.

  
  


Think, she orders herself while shaking violently, what am I missing?

  
  


Throwing her legs over the bedside Sansa gets up and hurries for the door. Two guards turn to greet her as it opens. Both northerners. Both dressed in recently polished Stark-uniforms. Neither has signs of frostbites or battle scars. There was even joy and content in their posture. War has never touched them.

  
  


“Is all well mylady?” The closest asks with a frown. Sansa nods before mechanically shutting the door. There’s noise from the other side, likely about her, but she can’t take it in. Her head is ringing.

  
  


Hyperventilating Sansa runs to the windows, almost ripping down the thick blue curtains. Sunlight explodes, blinding her for a moment. Once her sight clear she wishes it hadn’t. Beyond the walls of the Red Keep are a city untouched by war, dragon’s breath and winter storms.

  
  


King’s Landing was whole and once again the shining beacon of Westeros. Upon Visenya's hill the Great Sept was ringing its bells, welcoming the masses inside its dome. Turning away from its golden splendor Sansa hears a firm knock at the door. 

  
  


Before given entry an elder woman briskly invades her sanctuary. The intruder is wearing the traditional white cowl and the shapeless dress of septas. But it isn’t just any of the sworn sisters. Sansa recognizes her at once. Mordane! Her tutor whom Joffrey had beheaded.

  
  


“It can’t be.” She whispers, but the first kindles of hope started to grown inside her pounding heart. 

  
  


“Why aren’t you dressed?” Mordane scolds, appearing more surprised than vexed. 

  
  


“I just woke.” Years of practice hiding what she feels or thinks allow Sansa to reply without turning hysterical. Septa nods and shoo her towards the wardrobe. 

  
  


“I see that, but as it is you have missed breakfast,” Mordane speaks to her as if she was a child. Sansa’s hopes increase as she looks into the gilded mirror placed on the vanity beside her closet. A young girl stares back. Her face more open and healthy fat.

  
  


“The chefs have been told to not give you food until luncheon.” Mordane pulls off her nightgown. The skin underneath has no scars and frostbites.

  
  


Sansa was glad but hated that she once again was as fragile as a porcelain doll. A doll with a fondness for pastel colors, she grumbles as Mordane opens the wardrobe to reveal all the pretty dresses. How was anyone to take her seriously dressed in these things?

  
  


“You’ve grown again.” Her septa complain after helping her into a pale pink dress with stitched roses along the hem. The open sleeves were two inches short. “After your audience with your father, we’ll have you fitted for new ones.”

  
  


“Father!” Sansa’s heart skipping a beat. This was what she’d been praying for. “He’s expecting me?”

  
  


“You are not getting out of it Sansa. Your behavior these last weeks has been appalling. You will be apologizing to Lord Stark and mean it!” Mordane glares while escorting her out the door. The guards fall into step behind them. “It’s enough that your sister is running around like a wilding. I will not have two disobedient girls on my conscious.”

  
  


XXX

  
  


As they neared the clothed bridged Sansa slows her pace. As she locked out the window she saw more and more of the Serpent Steps. Along with noblemen escorting blushing ladies while guards marched past them. There were also greenkeepers tending to the potted plants and gossiping with the sweepers cleaning the white stones. It was an everyday scene but felt surreal. 

  
  


Sansa keeps pinching the tender skin around her left wrist to check it wasn’t an illusion. She draws blood as they cross. The closer they got to the Hand’s study the more she grew nervous. What if he wasn’t there? What is she dared to hope for nothing? 

  
  


Turning down the upper corridor Sansa spots the guards stationed outside the chamber. She still couldn’t understand why her father chose such a lousy position. The room was in the middle of a five-path-crossing. With windows and loose brick which allowed others to eavesdrop. On either side there were stairs, leading up or down, perfect for an ambush. Before the door was a long corridor leading three directions. Easily blocked off, Sansa thinks while coming down the middle one.

  
  


Her thoughts come to a halt when one of the men raises a hand to greet them. Sansa’s face split into a grin. It was their captain of the guards: Jory Cassel. The good-hearted man had been like an uncle to her while growing up. She’d never mourned for him properly, but that didn’t mean she hasn’t missed him. Her steps quicken.

  
  


“A lady does not run.” Mordane calls out behind her but is ignored. Jory chuckles, revealing two dimples just above his beard-line. Thick black curls mask his dark eyes as he moves to inform their lord Sansa was there. She’s inside the study before he’s even uttered her name.

  
  


XXX

  
  


Lined around the room were grand tapestries and heavy-footed candelabras, but at the heart was an imposing desk made out of ironwood. It was littered with scrolls and ledgers. Behind it sat a man in his forty, clothed in a black leather jerkin and worn trousers. To many Eddard “Ned” Stark would appear the epitome of a barbarian, but to her, he was a gift from the gods.

  
  


“Sansa!” The man’s warm voice greet as stormy black eyes look up to meet longing blue orbs. Eddard Stark leans back in his chair and buts away what he’d been reading. His stern face softens at the sight of her. “I’ve missed you this morning. Are you well?”

  
  


“Father.” She’s across the floor and around his neck in seconds, clinging for dear life and crying into his rough-shaven neck. There’s an awkward pause before two large arms close around her, offering safe harbor.

  
  


“What’s happened?” Ned worriedly asks. She can’t answer him, too busy listening to his steady heartbeat and taking in his scent: Steel, sweat and cold forest. Sansa no longer cared where she was or when. As long as this never disappeared.

  
  


“You were dead. Killed!” She gets out when someone begins pulling her away. They felt too small to be Ned’s, meaning Mordane has dared to approach. Her father halts her attempts. 

  
  


“No.”

  
  


“I think…” Mordane protests, sounding conflicted.

  
  


“Leave.” Ned quietly roars. The priestess flees the room, causing Jory to peeks inside before quickly shutting the enforced door. Ned waits for a beat before petting Sansa’s head, offering what comfort he could. “There sweet child, we are alone. Was it a night terror?”

  
  


“No, I…” Sansa stops, suddenly sensing how the following conversation would go. 

  
  


She will never be able to convince him. Ned has never believed in the old tales. As a child, she had often dreamt up fancy stories. He’d soon think her mad, widening the rift between them. Thus her sentence is never finished, instead, she continues crying, this time with tears far more bitter. Ned just holds her. Much later he eases her into another chair and hands her a wet towel. She croaks out thanks before dabbing soar and bloated cheeks with it.

  
  


“Is this about Lady?” His hands are pressed together to support his strong jaw. Guilt simmers in his eyes. Sansa shakes her head, hiding her face behind loose hair.

  
  


“It’s everything,” which was true. Sansa twists her hands into the towel, watching drops of water gliding down her shaking fingers. “I got overwhelmed. Am. It is all so strange.”

  
  


An apology burns on her tongue, but she swallows it. Ned rises and goes to the arched opening leading out to a balcony with overgrown plants. “Aye, it’s a strange place we’ve come to and our journey here was far from easy. But that is why we have each other. Arya, you and I. Family support one another. Through anything.”

  
  


Sansa bites her tongue in response. If only he knew what was ahead, she bitterly thinks. “Yes, father.”

  
  


“How about we take a walk.” He offers. “We often did back at Winterfell.” 

  
  


Sansa was terrified of leaving the tower. There were enemies within the castle and she wasn’t ready to face them. “We would not be left alone. You are the Hand now.”

  
  


“Then the tower. There are still quite a few rooms I haven’t seen yet.” Ned gruffly modifies, sensing her reluctance. “Perhaps we could save your sister from her lessons?”

  
  


“If Arya is willing to be around me.” Sansa knows she’s overwhelmed and close to breaking, but the chance to spend time with a little-sister untouched by war was too seductive. I… am still not forgiven.”

  
  


Ned wisely doesn’t touch upon that subject, instead, he sends for his second daughter while offering the elder a glass of water. Sansa gulps it down thirstily, asking for another. Arya appears as she sips on the third. The much too small child barely acknowledging her while eagerly demanding their father’s attention. 

  
  


Unbeknown to her Sansa needs the distraction because the sight of her sister was tearing up old wounds. How had Jon and she had missed the similarities between their siblings? This Arya and the Rickon they’d buried could be twins. They even had the same button-nose.

  
  


“We should go, father can’t be away for too long.” She desperately urges, trying to stave off more tears. Or hysterics. Ned frowns upon hearing her voice break, but Arya hurries out to the hallways and eagerly calls for them.

  
  


“Are you coming?” She nods to the door, walking on shaky legs. Ned is far from pleased, but don’t keep them waiting. 

  
  


XXX

  
  


Sansa stays awake well past the wolf-hour, not daring to snuggle down in the bed that welcomed her back to this time. Instead, she sits half-naked by the windows, staring out at the city she hates.

  
  


Despite the pain and worries plaguing her, this felt like a moment of perfect bliss. She was silently thanking whomever or whatever had made this possible while also cursing them. Why? Because whatever happened next would be on her shoulders and Sansa doubted she was ready to become a key player in the Great Game.

  
  


Thus Sansa watch as more and more lanterns go dark. It was like watching a beast go into hibernation. 

  
  


XXX

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Wolf in hiding

Time, as always, moves unavoidable forward. 

Sansa struggles to come to terms with her situation, often feeling like a stranded trout. But having survived alienation before she manages to keep up a believable act. Only Mordane and Arya question her odd behaviors. Such as her refusal to leave the Hand’s Tower. Instead, she hides behind lord Stark, escaping to his study at every opportunity. 

It isn’t long before he gifts her with a petite desk for personal usage, allowing her to aid him with minor tasks or petitions. Arya gains one as well after loudly complaining about the unfairness. Their tables were placed opposite each other with his between to keep the peace. It made quite the impression on callers. 

“I should have tried this back in Winterfell.” Ned speaks in amusement after another lord leaves the study in a barely controlled rage, “Who knew that the presence of ladies could unsettle charlatans and their greed to such an extent. Lord Levon won’t soon forget you, Sansa.”

“The man should have known better than to try and go behind the silk guild. His proposition was ridiculous.” Sansa barely looks up from the contract she’s reading. It was for gaining the Hand’s patronage over a green merchant-ship. “Even Arya knows the value on Tyrosh barkcloth and how delicate our trading is.” 

“Only because it makes for strong tents.” Arya defends herself, hating to appear girlish. To prove a point she begins to balance a letter opener on the tip of her fingers. Ned grimaced, but don’t take it. The blade was too blunt to cause damage.

“The Dothraki favors it.” Sansa hums in agreement, putting the request in the accept pile. If it had come to here then captain Olven has been denied by the merchant guild. This would secure his loyalty. “But a cheaper version has started to come off the island of Tarth." (Which is what Levon had wanted to fool people to buy but at the wrong price.) 

“Tarth? Where have I heard that before?” Their father grunts tiredly. It had been a long morning. 

“Perhaps do to the lord of Evenfall's daughter, Brienne of Tarth?” Sansa daringly inserts. A beet. The trap snaps into place. Both ask at the same time.

“Who?” Sansa allows herself one gleeful smirk before turning to them. 

“The woman who has taken up swordsmanship and dresses as a man.” She allows the idea to sink in, Arya’s eyes are all but glowing. “If you wish to learn more perhaps we should convince father to invite lord Renly. I hear that she’s very loyal to him.”

“Can we father? Please?!” It comes out more demanding than as a request. 

“We’ll see after the tourney,” Ned replies, already dreading what people would say when Arya’s new dance master arrived. “In the meantime, you can start writing to your brothers. They’ll expect to hear from us soon.” 

Swallowing a protest Arya reluctantly pulls her writing box closer. It had a howling wolf carved on top of it. Inside was two bottles of ink, three raven-pens, a jar of salt, and her private wolf-stamps with its fur shaped like arrowheads. Sansa’s had fur flowing like waves, a token of her mother’s family. They dutifully begin to pen and a somber silence settles between the three.

“I miss Jon.” Arya suddenly burst out, flinching as if waiting for a blow. It doesn’t come. Instead, Sansa and Ned nod in agreement which causes Arya to stare at her in surprise. Sansa silently cursed, that had been involuntary. 

“Distance is starting to make a lot of things clear to me,” Sansa confesses reluctantly, avoiding their sharp gaze. Her sister oftentimes saw too much. She always has and always will. “Things which now brings me shame.”

Pride started to creep across her father’s face, but Arya wasn’t as moved by her confession. She takes it as an opening to strike. Hard and fast. “Like how _lying_ caused Mycha to be hunted down. How it forced father to kill Lady! All just so you could keep your beloved prince.”

“Arya!” Ned warns, moving as if to rise. Sansa takes a deep breath and folds her hands into an unmovable fist. Her actions make him pause.

“… Yes.” It lands like a sledgehammer. There’s a flinch. Then Arya lets out a noise of victory, but it quickly grows hollowed. Sansa’s confession does nothing to elevate the pain and guilt still inside her sister.

“Why now.” Arya forces out instead, trying to sound angry, but there is grief behind each letter. “Why not say it when it truly mattered.”

“Because I am a slow learner.” The words taste bitter and brought back memories of times her idiocy caused those around her pain or even death. Fear digs its claws into her but is quickly chased away. Ned was alive and well. She knew better now. Was better. “But I learn.”

“Then do the right thing. Go to the king and tell him the truth!” Arya demands, wishing to do that much for the Mycha’s family. Sansa shakes her head and rises, calmly fleeing to the balcony. Her pastel dress gets pulled on by warm winds. 

“If I do that what do you think will happen?” She direct that as much to Arya as to Ned, who leans back in his chair thoughtfully.

“Joffrey will be punished.” Arya was so certain that she straightened her back. Just as a lady should. As their mother often did when entertaining ladies. The stained dress she wore tarnished the image. 

Sansa glance over her shoulder, not at the young girl, but the man covered in shadows. He slowly shakes his head, a hand covering most of his mouth. “Nothing. Robert wouldn’t do anything. The matter is over.”

“Only the queen would care.” Sansa fills in, picking a yellow flower from a hanging plant. She breathes in its sweet scent. “It would invoke her anger again and put us in a precarious position.”

“Father is the Hand of the king. What can she do!” Arya growls like an enraged wolf, operating under the assumption that their father’s ruling was unquestioned. 

“More than he or any of us.” Sansa snaps, for the first time becoming impatient with her. In the weeks past, she had managed to avoid such a conflict, hoping to avoid antagonizing their already strained bond. She turns to Ned. “I am sorry father, but you only have power here because the _king_ wills it. If Robert ever retracts it we will have many miles to travel before reaching safety.”

Ned holds up his hand when Arya stands to roar at the injustice. Soon after a comforting touch guides her back inside. The sisters are made to face each other. Cool summer face off against unyielding winter. 

“We’ve talked about this,” He begins with a gentle tone, giving Arya a telling look. “But I’ll say it again. We can’t fight a war among ourselves. More than ever we need to protect one other.”

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” Arya mutters, slowly subsiding. It wasn’t said in forgiveness, but as a way to offer an end to the conversation. Sansa takes it, sensing that neither of them would leave the room in one piece otherwise. 

Before more could be said or done Mordane comes to collect them for harp lessons. Sansa greets her tutor with a welcoming smile, but Arya is rebellious, asking their father if she can stay. “I won’t be in the way and I still have letters to write.”

“Tomorrow,” Ned urges, noting that new callers were approaching the study. “Now go with your septa child.”

Again Arya objected. Sighing Sansa speaks up. “Would it be feasible for you to take Arya riding later father? After our lessons? It appears she’s been cooped up for too long.”

Mordane expression became shrewd. “It would be a good opportunity for lady Sansa and I to go have her fitted for new dresses. In the city. Outside.”

The words were stressed. Ned’s expression soon mirrors the septas. “Yes. Would a ride be acceptable Arya?”

“Very!” Arya cheered, even going so far as urge Sansa and Mordane out the door. 

Sansa was less than pleased but knew her isolation needed to come to an end. She had hoped it would last longer. At least until her nightly panic attacks stopped. 

XXX

Her new dresses are darker in color. Cut in a simple style and quickly finished. Mordane still asks her, even after they’ve arrived, if she truly wants that much grey and black. Sansa’s answer was and still is Yes! None was to wonder of her loyalties. The game she was setting up demanded it. 

To elevate some of her tutor's concerns Sansa has begun to embroider trout's, wolves, flowers, and other emblems onto the dresses' wide sleeves and high necklines. It adds some colors. To Arya’s annoyance she’s started doing needlework while in the dining hall; simply named the Wolves den by their soldiers. Her sister far preferred to playing a card game with some of the soldiers at the table-end.

“I can do your clothes as well sister.” Sansa sweetly offers after another derogatory remark from Arya. “How about something special for father’s tourney? Maybe crossing lances?”

“No thanks.” Is the short reply. The soldiers laughs before reminding her of the rules. The men’s patient with Arya was comforting. Mordane lacks a lot in that area. 

“Don’t spend time on that foolishness.” Ned inserts as he comes back after a private talk with Jory. The captain was subtly pocketing a note sealed with the Hand’s stamp. Their lord’s displeasure was visible. “If I had a say there would be no tourney. It’s wasteful.” 

There were a few agreeing nods and a few hushed protests. Most knew of the winnings and the Hand’s disgust over the crowns wastefulness, but less to why he was so adamant. Sansa was sure Mordane saw it as a sign that her father was starting to embrace the true faith; her mentioning of the Seven has become more open and frequent as of late. 

“It is not,” Sansa remarks, aware of his true reasons. This was her opening to reveal what’s been done to lessen the costs. She carefully put away her work in a nearby basket. “There will be more at the tourney than jousting and archery. Game Master Isaak has also contracted merchants, cooks, performers, and gamers.”

“I have not been informed of such freedoms.” Ned's expression turns thunderous, but he doesn’t shout. He seldom does. 

“It’s in the reports he’s been sending you.” Sansa defends in false confusion. Those reports never lingered on his desk, rather, Sansa’s been handling them. Sending messages back to Isaak, with the Hand’s signature. “A few tents are already up and drawing attention. I fear it’s too late to cancel.” 

Hearing this Ned becomes the silent wolf. Standing in the middle of the room with a blank face. None knew what he was thinking. If Sansa was truly her young self this would scare her. Now it merely made her more careful. As was the rest of the room. The air was thick with tension.

“Well,” From her spot next to Sansa Mordane dares to clear her throat. “At least it will make people abstain from foul gambling and waste their coins on more frivolous things.” 

This breaks the tension and the men in the hall started laughing and challenge each other. Ned was still closed off, but he didn’t stop them from enjoying themselves. Some ask Sansa what games will be offered. Hearing about the Golden Lion or the Hares Burrow the soldiers recall playing as children. They soon have Arya’s full attention as she asks which was the hardest game. 

“The Hanged Jester.” Is the unanimous answer. The guard sitting next to Arya goes in on the details. “One has to figure out a coded message before the hourglass runs out. If you fail the gamekeeper removes a peg keeping your doll from becoming the hanged jester.”

“That sounds boring.” Arya waves off, preferring more physical games.

“Your aunt Lyanna loved it.” Their father revealed, breaking the spell on himself. He was still displeased, but now made an effort for his daughter’s sake. “She often teased Brandon and me for failing at it.”

“It is a sibling's prerogative to lord things over each other.” Sansa drawls, sending Arya meaningful looks: It’s met with a wiggling tongue. 

“Arya!” Mordane scolds, mortified. All the men laugh. Ned even manages a chuckle. With that, they leave the subject. Sansa counts it as a successful move and checks off the tourney from her mental game-board.

XXX


End file.
